


Mystery at 20 Ingram Street

by Grandeur_Raconteur



Series: Avengers Assemble: World War I [1]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Relationship, Tony Stark Has A Heart, pre-tony stark/stephen strange, this is a slow burn through a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 16:44:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16479197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grandeur_Raconteur/pseuds/Grandeur_Raconteur
Summary: Anthony Stark, the world's most renowned inventor, had no intention of ending up trying to solve peculiar happenings at the home of a boy and his guardians that night. Let alone teaming up with a sorcerer.But then, most events that change your life forever are unexpected.





	Mystery at 20 Ingram Street

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the Ironstrange Halloween Advent Calendar! Hope everyone has a great Halloween!
> 
> And yes, this is the start of a series, inspired by a gif set that I can't seem to find at the moment, but I will link people to it as soon as I track it down...it was something like "Avengers 1900," and it helped me open up this story when I was struggling to decide where to go with it. Had the idea and had it partly written, but something was missing...and that was the needed ingredient. 
> 
> Eternal thanks to my most patient betas, my friends merelypassingtime and Sarah. They're the best. 
> 
> And of course, nothing but the plot belongs to me. Love these characters, though.

The clocktower struck the eighth bell of midnight just as the Futurist stepped onto the murky cobblestone street. Anthony Stark was, by all accounts, a man of the future. The same had been said of his father, and his father before him, and each subsequent heir earned respect as the Futurist, though at this point no one seemed to know _what_ future that exactly was. To many, it was coal, and the promise of ever-expanding industry, with machines and other innovations created and powered in ways peat moss, had it the capability of consciousness, could only dream of. For others, it was guano, and the chance for greater yields from crops and, if they were lucky, a correlating expansion of the population.

   

Naturally, as both the current era’s Futurist and possessing a contradictory personality to begin with, Stark contended that neither of these options had any hope of longevity. At least not for the United States. The modern coal lover seemed to think all they needed was that precious rock, and innovations would follow. Stark found this the height of arrogance, and had no issue expressing this opinion to even the drunkest of barflies. For all they knew, a much grander form of power could be found in Asia, or Africa, even before the century was out. And then where would the States be? With a great lot of black rock and a pack of American industrialists scratching their heads as the world passed them by.

   

What of guano? Well, now _that_ Stark did have some interest in. It was true that guano did provide a great fertilizer, and crop yields had grown with its use, but the world could only count on defecating birds for so long. The future lay in finding an artificial alternative, some kind of nitrogen fixation process to produce the ammonia necessary for industrialized and human-made fertilizer. Such an invention, Stark theorized, could have uses far beyond the mass production of fertilizer, and he had every intention of bringing such an innovation to light. His trade, as it had been for the previous Stark men, was in weapons manufacturing, though not in the way as it had been prior to...recent events. Current research he had engaged in, however, suggested a potential use for nitrogen as a weaponizable compound. It was not lost on him that, as the world grew smaller by the day, global tensions rose correspondingly higher. They would inevitably snap, and a war unlike any they had seen would begin. And he had every intention of being prepared for when it did.

 

Off in the distance, the bell was in the midst of its final toll when it went completely silent mid-ring. Pausing in his stride with a frown, Stark turned to glance behind at the clock tower. Odd. More than odd. Tilting his head in curiosity, he nearly took a step in its direction when something weakly gripped his wrist.

 

“Mr. Stark, sir?”

 

Spinning around, Stark yanked his arm out of the grasp and stared down at the rather frail child. He appeared no older than eight, small and clearly long malnourished. The boy’s clothes seemed well-worn and dirty, no doubt hand me downs from a previous generation judging by their fit and aged appearance. Looking at the child over his glasses, he cast a brief glance around for potential guardians...and checked with a discreet hand for his purse. No on guardians. Yes on purse. Halfway to grand.

 

Shooting the urchin a grim expression, he remarked. “Perhaps you haven’t heard, but its considered rather impolite to grab a stranger like that, boy. Some would not hesitate to use a more corporeal form of punishment.”

 

“My apologies, Mr. Stark, sir,” the boy said with large eyes. “I did try calling at first, but you didn’ pay me no mind.”

 

“I’m sure I would have, with a voice like yours.” The boy was rather loud. Despite his size, his voice seemed to carry, echoing oddly through the empty street.

 

“Maybe you were distracted by the bell. Odd, in’t?”

 

“Quite,” Stark muttered. “But what, pray tell, is the reason for your insistence on getting my attention? Do you need help finding your parents?” It seemed reasonable enough that a child might come to any type of familiar face for help if they were lost, and his was certainly well known. And a child out at this time of night...

 

“I heard tell you’re the Futurist,” the boy said. “Is that true? Are you really the best engineer of the century?”

 

“Yes?” Stark asked, waving his hand in an impatient ‘go on’ gesture.

 

“And, see, we can’t light a fire in my aunt and uncle’s house. It’s not just the fireplace, neither. Nothin’ll light. Any flame that gets in our doors extinguishes immediately. Matches won’t work, nor flint, nor nothin’! And, well, winter is around the corner, and I heard Aunt May sayin’ to Uncle Ben that she was worried we’d freeze. So, I snuck out and went looking for you. I thought maybe you could fix it.”

 

Stark opened his mouth to respond to this rather remarkable story, but the enthusiastic boy plowed on. “I saw your face in the paper. They said you can save the workin’ class. So I thought you might, ya know, be willin’ to help us out?” It was probably meant to come out as a statement, but it came out a question as the boy restlessly wrung his hands.

 

Well. He hadn’t anticipated a guilt trip tonight, but it seemed that was what he was getting. Shifting awkwardly where he stood, Stark looked at a spot over the boy’s head. “What business does an eight-year-old have reading papers and harassing people on the street for aid?”

 

The boy looked offended, his nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing. “I’m twelve!”

 

Dear lord, the boy’s family had to be worse off than he’d assumed. Watching the boy steadily and fingering the watch in his pocket, Stark clicked his tongue. “What do I call you, kid?”

 

“The name’s Parker, sir. Peter Parker.”

 

“Well, then young master Parker, give me your address. I can come by tomorrow night. I’ve nothing pressing.”

 

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Stark, sir!” The boy, Peter, said with, impressively, more enthusiasm than he had spoken with during the course of their conversation. “It’s 20 Ingram Street. Only house on the block, you can’t miss it. Ready to go?”

 

Stark blinked, taking a moment to process the impetuousness of the child. He could admire that. “Tonight? That’s rather-”

 

“Yes, tonight! We can go together.” Peter paused, worrying at his lip. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to have you over otherwise. It’s gotta be tonight.”

 

Eyes narrowing at that worrying statement- was the boy concerned they could freeze that night?- he put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Alright,” he said after another moment of contemplation. “We’ll make it tonight, then.” Putting a hand on Peter’s shoulder, he guided him in the direction of the street where he had Happy waiting for him. “Get moving, kid. I’d like to make this quick. It’s past your bedtime.”

 

***

 

After a quick stop at Stark’s place to pick up a messenger bag of tools, the carriage came to a halt outside Peter’s given address. Stark cast a quick glance to the boy at his side. Peter had been talkative the entire way, giving him a running commentary on the house, his aunt and uncle, how he’d never been in such a nice carriage before, how fantastic being an engineer must be, commenting on damn near everything vaguely interesting they passed….on and on he went, his mouth running faster than a locomotive, his hands gesturing like the wheels. Truth be told, he wasn’t always the best with kids. Near forty now, and he’d made a point to avoid the trappings of family life, despite his many liaisons. However, there was something about the enthusiasm of the boy that was charming, and at some point his irritation had given way to bemusement. He seemed like a fine youth. That fact made him even more determined to figure out the mystery of this urgent business. As full of heart as Peter appeared to be, it wouldn’t surprise him if his desire that Stark come over right away just came from fear of his family being harmed by the lack of warmth in their home. Still, something about this whole situation set something off in his brain, telling him that all was not right in the Parker household. That was the true motive of his deciding to tag along. His conscience could not be clear until he ensured the boy was safe.

 

Work bag slung over his shoulder, Stark stepped out of the carriage and frowned up at the house. It was a dilapidated thing, with visibly rotting siding on the west wall, the paltry excuse for a porch sinking into the foundations on the same side. You could practically smell and taste the must from here. And no wonder they couldn’t light a fire: the roof was full of holes and the building should clearly have been condemned long ago. It was a wonder any part of the structure was still standing.

 

Turning, Stark looked up at his driver with a raised brow. “Are you certain this is the correct address, Happy? It appears you may have taken us to a practice home for the fire brigade, or perhaps a lot destined for tear down and new development.”

 

The large man shook his head. “No, boss. This is it. Though how anyone can live in this squalor is beyond me. I could have sworn all these places burned down decades ago, but it looks like this one stayed standing.”

 

“For now.” Stark quipped, raising his brows like a shrug at his driver. Going around to the other side of the carriage, he opened the door and let the boy hop down. Motioning for him to forge ahead, he said, “Why don’t you go inside and let your aunt and uncle know I’m here? I’ll be just a minute.”

 

Stark smiled as the boy nodded and bounded up the steps. His smile dropped as he saw the way the steps caved in and the place shook from the action. Pulling out a few notes from his pocket, he held them out for Happy to take. “Why don’t you drive down to the Black Kettle for a drink or two? I can meet you there once I’ve finished with this.”

 

“Sure you don’t need my help, boss?”

 

“No, I am sure I can handle a little home repair myself. Just save a few drinks for me.”

 

“No promises.”

 

“Well, I guess I best hurry.”

 

As the carriage pulled away, Stark thought he caught the glimpse of something red in his periphery. Glancing to the side, he saw nothing but the grim empty street. Quirking a brow at the phenomenon, he approached the building, scratching at the nape of his neck as he looked over the place more thoroughly. It was an old house, that was for certain. Had to have been here at least half a century if it’d been a day. The stairs gave an alarming groan as he stepped on them, sinking a little below his feet. If he took them faster than absolutely necessary, that was between him and them. Steadfastly ignoring the nagging concern that the house could give way at any moment, he knocked briskly on the rotting door.

 

With an exuberance that disturbed Stark, for fear it alone would be enough to knock the place down, Peter opened the door again. “Aunt May and Uncle Ben are waitin’ in the parlor for you, Mr. Stark, sir.”

 

“If you could just drop the ‘Mr.’ and the ‘sir’, Master Peter, I would be forever grateful,” Stark drawled as he followed the boy inside. He was hit immediately with the overwhelming smell of mildew and rot, and almost had to physically restrain himself from reaching up to block his nose. “Both those terms have the immediate effect of making me feel like my father, which of course reminds me _of_ my father, and that is unpleasantness all around.”

 

“If you insist on that,” the boy paused, stuttering over what to call him, before skirting the issue altogether by leaving out any form of address, “then you should drop the “Master” from my name. It makes me feel like I am back at school.”

 

Holding back his urge to inform the child that he should _still_ be in school, Stark offered him a nod. “Very well, I’ll be Stark, and you’ll be Parker.”

 

“Whatever you like, Mr. Stark, sir.”

 

The boy turned to lead him to the back of the house, but not before Stark caught the slightest hint of a grin. The boy had cheek, that was for certain. He could appreciate that.

 

As they walked through the house, Stark took note of the continued signs of decay. This place couldn’t be healthy. The rot was physically visible in the walls, with many panels bowing in as they lost their form. Even the wooden floors felt spongy under his feet; a trampoline artist at the circus could perform on them. And the furniture...it was like some creature had gone rampant in here, gnawing on the chairs and tearing apart the settee. If you had shown him this place without context, he would have believed it occupied. But not by humans.

 

“You get many pests here, Peter?”

 

The boy shrugged. “We see a deer or a raccoon outside from time to time. Why?”

 

“No reason,” Stark said, eyeing what was once a fairly nice armchair, but now lacked a leg and half its stuffing.

 

“Ah, you must be Mr. Stark!” A jovial female voice said.

 

Whipping his head forward again only to stumble to a halt just short of running into Peter, he found a couple there around his age. While he had been looking around they had arrived in the parlor, a room as dank and squalid as the rest of the house he’d seen so far. However, the Parkers were a sharp contrast to the general air of neglect and certainly provided a sharp counterpoint to the ratty clothes Parker was wearing. They wore bright clothing that fit well and was kept neat and clean, Mrs. Parker in a bright yellow dress and Mr. Parker in a green suit. Both greeted him with bright grins, he shaking his hand as she offered hers for a kiss. He granted both, but not without heebeegeebees. They were congenial enough, and kindly offered him a place at the dining table while Mrs. Parker finished preparations for dinner. But their grins never left their face, not even for a second, and their eyes lacked all human warmth and humor. There was also the fact that Mr. Parker held a rather ancient volume of Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein._ But it was upside down, and he did not once look up from it, even as he shook Stark’s hand.

 

“You have a...lovely home here,” he offered without enthusiasm.

 

“It’s been in the Parker family for two generations! Ben’s father built the place not long before the Revolution. Isn’t that right, Ben?”

 

“1769,” he said through his teeth, still looking down at his book with that far too-wide smile.

 

“How...nice.” Two generations? My God, the men in this family must have fathered children at an advanced age. Perhaps that explained Peter’s living situation.

 

“So, Mr. Stark, how is your flying contraption going?”

 

Stark, who had produced his own flask from an inside pocket (decorum be damned, he needed a drink), nearly spat out his scotch. How in the hell...? “I’m sorry?”

 

“The flying contraption! Last I heard, you were determined to construct a practical aircraft. It’s all Peter can talk about.”

 

Peter nodded vigorously.

 

“...the first such vessel was invented a few years back by the Wright brothers,” Stark intoned with some confusion. “It appeared in all the papers.” Something his father would have been furious about, had he lived to see it. Howard Stark had spent many years attempting to develop such an aircraft, and had tried to bully his son into the endeavor as well. Unfortunately for him, Anthony Stark was far more interested in weapons and automatons.

 

“Really?” Peter looked with open-mouthed astonishment, his eyes full of more enthusiasm than he had yet seen from the boy, with was saying something.

 

“Oh, no!” The words suggested Mrs. Parker’s expression and tone should be sympathetic, but it was unchanged from that of her earlier enthusiastic greeting. “How did we miss that? Ben, did you know about that?”

 

“Heard not one word about it, May.” Stark dearly wished the man would look up from his book, or at least stop smiling. Had he even turned a page?

 

“Okay, dinner is ready! Peter, would you mind helping me bring the dishes to the table?”

 

Had the food smelled remotely appetizing, Stark may have been interested in the meal. However, whatever stench was emanating from the kitchen did not bode well for the feast at hand.

 

Indeed, his fears proved justified. A soft cry emitted from his lips as Mrs. Parker and Peter deposited the serving bowls on the table. It became instantly clear where the scent of rot had come from. Though some level of rot was not unexpected in the poor home’s kitchen, the uncooked potatoes were blackened and sinking in on themselves, a viscous fluid dripping from them. The chunks of bread and cheese fared much the same, the cheese with enough green and white mold covering its surface and eating away at so that it was concave in parts and its variety was completely unrecognizable. As for the bread, well...somehow that was worse than the rest, the thick layer of green-grey fuzz over its entirety bringing a kind of sudden illness to his stomach that he could only wonder at how he managed to avoid spoiling the dinner further with its contents, not that the food could be made much more inedible.

 

“Is everything alright, Mr. Stark, sir?”

 

Glancing about the table, it was clear the none of the inhabitants of the house saw anything unusual about their meal. Open concern marred their faces as they stared at him expectantly; to his utter horror, Peter was happily eating on a slice of the moldy bread. Mr. Parker ate a piece of cheese without looking up from his book, while Mrs. Parker dished out heaping servings to each of them with that perpetual wide smile on her face. That creeping itch of _wrong_ now was almost unignorable.  

 

“I am…unfortunately deathly allergic to this particular variety of potato. So much so, in fact, that it would be best if I were to avoid all foods it may have come in contact with. While I appreciate your hospitality, I am afraid I will have to decline your...offering and get straight to work on the problem young Parker has brought me here for.”

“Oh, of course! Here, let me lead you to it.” Mrs. Parker said, that smile still stuck in place despite his utter disregard for her cooking, if it could be called that.

 

Stark followed her into the living room, where the main fireplace resided. “I’m not sure what the great engineer of the 19th century can possibly do with a plain old fireplace, but if it will please Peter than it is worth it.”

 

Stark began to point out that it was now 1908 and thus the 20th century, but one look at her grin and his mouth closed. The thought of holding a conversation with either of the elder Parkers for longer than absolutely necessary was too much for him to handle. Simply nodding his head, he turned to the fireplace and deposited his bag, listening to her steps retreat back to the dining room. Time to work, then get the hell out of here.

 

Stark’s first thought, of course, had been that perhaps there was an issue with the open flue and whenever a fire was lit it simply provided too much air and blew it out. Deciding to test this theory, he determined to start from the beginning: try to light a fire in the first place. Beside the fire lay a few logs, miraculously fresh, and bits of old newspaper. Putting together a decent pile for a fire, he checked the flue to ensure it was closed, then reached inside his bag for matches. Sure enough, just as Peter had described it, the fire would not take light. Even when he brought the flame to the paper, the match would go out with a quiet hiss, as if an undetectable breeze had blown it out. Except...not like a breeze. Even when there was no draft, when Stark cradled the light to himself, protected it with his hand, and held his breath, the light just...faded. Not on a wave, just like a snap, there one instant and gone the next. Crossing his arms and covering his mouth with his hand, Stark considered the possible causes. A hole, perhaps, that he couldn’t see in the chimney, or below the grate? That shouldn’t cause a light to dissipate in the manner this did.

 

“Strange, isn’t it?”

 

Starting with a small sound, Stark glanced behind him to where Peter stood, his arms crossed in front of him. Thank God it wasn’t one of the elder Parkers. He’d had his fill of them at this point. Offering the boy a tight smile that more resembled a grimace than a grin, he sat back on his heels to better evaluate the boy. “It is curious,” he agreed. “Do you have any theories?”

 

Peter shook his head, his too-long hair flapping about like puppy ears. “Nope, none. I climbed the chimney once, tryin’ to find a hole or something’ suspicious, but,” he cut off with a shrug. “Then I thought it might be the draft from the holey roof, but even when I go into a closet or somethin’, I can’t light a match. They just go out. And that makes no sense.”

 

“Indeed,” Stark muttered, inclining his head to look at the boy. Peter had a great deal of intellectual curiosity, a good sign of intelligence. Precocious for sure. The purity of his interest warmed something in Stark’s heart.

 

Making a come-hither motion with his finger, he put his arm around Peter’s shoulders as he kneeled down beside him. With his free hand, he reached into his bag, pulling out various tools, a far too dirty cloth, and a two-pronged metal rod with a leather handle and small lever at the base. “Don’t touch that,” he warned the boy, keeping one eye on him even after Peter promised not to. He’d been a boy once, and he knew not to trust such a curious one to listen. Finally, he produced a hexagon shaped redwood box, with a lighter wood creating an intricate arabesque design on top. With a small smirk, he pressed two secret buttons on the sides of the seemingly solid piece, and the pieces began to shift and transform.

 

It was a thing of beauty, even to him now, to watch the contraption unfold. The bronze panels slowly unfolded themselves, creating a lotus shape around the edges as a mechanical figure, no more than eight inches tall, unfurled itself from its bent up shape in the center. Green and red painted metal gave the figure an almost bird-like quality. Indeed, Stark had based the design on a hummingbird he’d seen once on an ill-advised nature walk. Once the figure stood fully, it bowed its head.

 

Watching Peter’s face as he studied the object with great astonishment filled Stark with a kind of warmth he wasn’t used to. His smile was genuine as Peter starred with open-mouthed amazement as the figure began to speak.

 

“Good evening, Mr. Stark,” the robotic voice of the automaton said. “How may I be of service?”

 

A small squeak came from Peter, who appeared to have gone momentarily speechless.

 

“Good evening, Jarvis. I have something of a puzzle for us.”

 

“For something to puzzle you, sir, it must be quite the conundrum.”

 

There was a dry note to the tone that had Stark raising a brow at his creation. Without a doubt, Jarvis was his crown jewel. He had designed him in the hope of creating life from a machine, and had come extraordinarily close. All of the words and phrases had been recorded (the voice provided by his dearly departed family butler many years prior, as he patiently read entries from a comprehensive dictionary), but it was his own ingenious programming that allowed for Jarvis (named after said butler) to formulate sentences and understand requests. He even, as time went on, seemed to be developing a personality independent of Stark’s own design.

 

“That it is,” Stark agreed. “I need you to run a diagnostic, Jarvis. Let me know if you see anything peculiar.”

 

“A..die-a-nose-tic?” Peter tried, seemingly getting over his amazement enough to return to his usual form of unending questions.

 

“Diagnostic,” Stark corrected. “He’s going to look over the house and see if he can identify anything wrong that you and I can’t see with the naked eye.”

 

“Wow...” Peter breathed. “He can really do that?”

 

“Yes indeed,” Stark said cheerfully. Holding Jarvis up for Peter to see better, he questioned, “What do you think, Master Parker?”

 

“I think he’s amazing, Mr. Stark, sir,” Peter looked up at him with a cheeky grin, one Stark couldn’t help returning with one of his own. A boy after his own heart. Never thought he’d live to see the day.

 

“Peter?” Mrs. Parker called from the dining room. “Peter, where are you? Dessert is almost ready!”

 

“Coming!” Peter called, blissfully unaware of the face Stark pulled at the word “dessert.” He dearly hoped he never found out what she served for _that_. Peter looked apologetically at Stark and stood. “I’ll come back later if you haven’t finished up yet. I can help,” he paused, then said somewhat nervously. “If you’d like my help.”

 

“I’d be happy for it.” And he meant it, too.

 

Peter looked quite pleased, and hurried off to join his aunt and uncle in the other room.

 

“Ready to start that diagnostic, Jarvis?”

 

“Ready as ever, sir.”

 

Stark trusted Peter’s judgment enough to believe him when he said that the fire problem seemed to have nothing to do with a draft from the holes in the place. Nevertheless, he wanted to have Jarvis exam the phenomenon as it happened in a controlled environment. With Jarvis and his two-pronged rod in tow (for admittedly, Stark felt the need for a modicum of protection in this place), he searched the decrepit house until he found a fairly spacious closet off the main hall. Stepping inside, he closed the door and touched his finger to his tongue to wet it. Holding it up, he ensured there was no notable draft before igniting a lighter he pulled from his pocket. Or rather, trying to. No matter how many times he triggered it, nothing was produced. The room remained entirely dark, aside from a faint orange light from Jarvis’ box that indicated he was scanning.

 

“Anything, Jarvis?”

 

“Very little, sir. There is _something_ unusual I am detecting, but my systems cannot recognize it. I think perhaps it is something you have not added to my programming before.”

 

“Nonsense. I’ve added _everything_ known to science to your database, and then some.”

 

“Then perhaps it is something _un_ known to science.”

 

Stark was silent for a moment. “Something in this house reeks of a sinister nature, and I’m _not_ just referring to their abhorrent food or the state of their house. Something is going on here, Jarvis.” He paused, consideringly. “And I am loath to leave anyone here under such alarming circumstances, least of all a child.”

 

“You are, Mr. Stark, quite right in your assessment.”

 

The loud yelp Stark gave at the new voice was rather undignified, but that was the least of his concerns at that moment. Spinning on his heel, he turned to look at the other end of the closet. There was a man there, a Stark Industries made electric device (a tube that produced light, for which they had struggled to determine a board-approved name for) in his hand. Just peeking out from the gloom stood a tall, sharp-featured man, with crystalline eyes and a severe mouth. Stark gripped the rod and held it aloft. The man regarded it with the bemusement it probably deserved on first look. He’d learn better soon enough if he felt its 30,000 volts of electricity.

 

“You know my name, but I can’t say I have the same advantage. Who the hell are you?”

 

“My name is Doctor Stephen Strange, and you, Mr. Stark, are going to help me.”

 

“Strange greeting for a Strange man,” Stark quipped, holding the rod a little higher. “What makes you think I am just going to help you? We just met, and you nearly killed me from shock.”

 

Strange rolled his eyes heavenward. Stepping closer, Strange came to stand just a few inches from the point of the rod. He was dressed elegantly, with a dark greatcoat over a grey, pinstripe three-piece suit. Certainly looked the role of doctor, or a criminal of the masterclass variety with ill-gained wealth. Strange leveled him with a look of contempt. “We’ve no time for banter. It is not overstating it to say that that boy’s life is at risk, unless you and I can work together to save him.”

 

That caught Stark’s attention. Barely lowering the stick, he eyed Strange up and down. “I’ll admit I am inclined to get to the bottom of whatever is transpiring here. I’ve yet, however, to see a reason I should simply trust _you_.”

 

“And I have little reason to trust a war profiteer,” Strange countered. “And yet, we share the same goal. I’m sure you have plenty of experience working with those you do not know in order to eradicate a common enemy using one another’s skill set. How would this be any different?”

 

Stark bristled at the vague reference, his nostrils flaring. “And what skill set do you purport to possess that would benefit us in this situation?”

 

The crystal eyes gleamed with something that may have been mischief. “Sorcery.”

 

Strange held his hand out, and with a peculiar movement of his fingers the electric device in his hand morphed, becoming a ball of light that rose above them and lit the small space. Stark jumped back, the parlor of his face becoming pale.

 

“Good god,” he muttered, his heart stuttering in his chest. Reaching up, he ran his fingers through the light, but all he encountered was a sensation similar to that of static electricity. It truly was a free-floating light, nothing attached to it and nothing to hold it aloft. Looking back to Strange, he found the other man watching him with a smug expression, his hand still held aloft from performing the spell. It was for the first time that Stark noticed the severe scarring on his hands. Intentional, even lines that suggested some kind of heavy surgery marred the skin. A veteran, perhaps?

 

“I am, in many ways, a scientist just like yourself,” Strange intoned, ignoring Stark’s quiet panic. “I was at one time a surgeon. One of the best, in fact. While I do not practice medicine any longer, the mindset has never left me. Once, I investigated and eradicated the tangible diseases that plague our world. Now I investigate the intangible. And this house, Mr. Stark, is diseased by a rather nasty creature from another dimension.”

 

“You must be joking.”

 

“Are you saying you have never seen something you could not explain? Experienced something miraculous you could not put logic to?”

 

“Certainly. Myself when I’ve indulged in too much scotch. That isn’t mysticism, that’s liquor.”

“And what of your time in China?” Strange asked with clear intent. “Did you not experience something extraordinary there?”

 

Blood drained from Stark’s face, and he clutched his coat just a bit tighter around his chest. “Nothing that I would explain in detail to a stranger, and certainly not a vaguely threatening one. But the only extraordinary part of that whole affair was my own resolve and intellect. Ghosts and goblins had nothing to do with it, not in the literal sense.”

 

“Nothing tangible, you mean,” Strange said knowingly.

 

“What are you implying?”

 

“That you have more experience in this field than you know.” Brushing Stark’s arm aside, Strange stepped closer, almost uncomfortably so, until he could lean into his personal space. “You are a good man, Stark. Or at least you have endeavored to become one. I can respect that, for reasons not relevant to present affairs. So I will ask that you help me with this, and try not to ask too many questions of me yet. Truly, we have no time to waste.” Lowering his voice, Strange leaned closer still, his eyes boring into Stark with an expression that left him feeling as if the man saw far more of him that he could possibly know. “You are not the only Futurist in this house, Mr. Stark. This is just the beginning of a tangled web, one which you and I must play a part of for years to come. So help me with this, help me save this boy, and I will tell you all you need to know.”

 

Intrigue did not begin to describe the sensation which filled Stark near to bursting. Nodding his head slowly, Stark held the rod up to just below Strange’s nose. The man leaned back just an inch, perhaps now able to hear the electrical currents flowing through it at this proximity. “Okay, wizard. I will follow along for now. But don’t think I will follow you blindly, or that this acceptance means I don’t feel indelibly suspicious of your intent. I am only doing this for the sake of this family, as I suspect whatever ails them might be out of my proverbial wheelhouse. But I actually think you may have some intelligence about you, and that you may, in fact, have a good understanding of whatever circumstances have created this problem here. I will, however, be watching you like a hawk for one false move. Do we have an understanding, doctor?”

 

Those sharp eyes continued to pierce his with their assessing glare, but after a time Strange nodded his head just once. “Then we have work to do. You must follow my lead, and try not to question my methods if you can. I am sure that will be challenging enough for you.”

 

Strange waved his hands, and a heavy volume appeared floating in front of his chest. Stark jumped back a foot, staring in wide-eyed wonder as Strange flicked his hand and the book opened, flipping its pages by some unseen force.

 

“The ‘circumstance’, as you called it, is a rather nasty other dimensional soul-eater. Or rather, a tribe of them that have descended on the house. They are invisible to the naked eye, but with the right kind of- please stop waving your hands around the book, Mr. Stark. You will not understand sorcery any better if you continue- the right kind of vision, anyone can see their forms. I, of course, spotted these parasites attached to young Parker’s body as he strode through the streets tonight. There is, unfortunately, one other entity which appears to be working in tandem with the soul-eaters: a grief leech. It feeds on its host’s sorrow.”

 

“Grief? Grief over what?”

 

“Whatever the reasons, we must break through the hold they have on the Parkers. I can force them to reveal themselves, but you and I likely will have to engage them in battle.”

 

“You want me to fight intangible other-dimensional beings that feed on souls and grief? Oh, wonderful. Sounds like a walk in Central Park.”

 

“Well, I may be able to bargain with the soul-eaters, convince them to move on elsewhere to more deserving humans. Child murderers, perhaps. The grief leech is likely to pose more of a problem. I suspect it has been feeding here for quite some time. It’ll be territorial. And unfortunately, it has done a good job of preventing anyone from killing it. This little fire problem the boy brought you here to deal with? That would be the leech. Fire is its greatest physical weakness, and so it put a spell on the place to prevent fire from being used against it. It’s had a long time to fortify it, too. I fear I would do irreparable damage to the Parkers if I tried to eliminate the spell.”

 

“Better and better,” Stark muttered. “And how does one eradicate an extra-dimensional being?”

 

Strange gave Stark a thin smile, one which brought a chill to the already preternatural cold of the place.

 

“I suggest you prepare your mind and body, Mr. Stark. You’re in for a bit of a shock.”

 

***

 

Soon after Stark returned to the fireplace with Strange, Peter returned from whatever constituted a dessert in this place. His eyes widened upon seeing the tall figure accompanying Stark, and he pointed a finger at him. “Who are you? What are you doin’ here?”

 

“This is Doctor Stephen Strange. He’s...an acquaintance. I’ve called him in to consult on the matter,” Stark replied, slinging the strap of his bag over his head and slipping Jarvis back into it. The rod, however, he kept tucked through his belt.

 

“You must be Master Parker,” Strange said with propriety that would put King Edward VII to shame, sticking his hand out to Peter to shake. “I am Doctor Stephen Strange. I’m here to assist your family in eliminating the ailment.”

 

Glancing down at the offered hand, Peter squinted and looked Strange up and down before shaking his hand with some trepidation. Stark’s lips twitched into a smile. The kid really was smart.

 

“Who’s this?”

 

The trio glanced up to find the elder Parkers had entered the room. Those cheerful expressions and lighthearted tones had dissipated somewhat for the first time since Stark had arrived. Mr. Parker had even looked up from his book, and Stark was startled to find that his eyes seemed...wrong. Glazed in a way that was unnatural. He side-eyed Strange, noting how the Doctor’s gaze had settled on Mr. Parker with a critical eye.

 

“This is Doctor Strange, Aunt May,” Peter said, retreating a few steps to be closer to his aunt and uncle. “He’s here to help Mr. Stark.”

 

“And what help would a doctor have with our little problem?” She asked with a giggle that sounded oddly nervous.

 

“There are many different kinds of doctors, madam,” Strange replied smoothly with an inclination of his head. “And I believe my skill set might be better suited to this particular issue than Mr. Stark’s.”

 

“That doesn’t seem possible!” Peter spoke as if _he_ had been personally insulted. “He’s the best engineer the world has ever seen! The Futurist!”

 

“Indeed, his skill in that area is incomparable. However, I am fairly certain the issue with your fireplace cannot be sorted through engineering expertise.” Though he answered Peter, he directed his words to the elder Parkers. Their expressions had melted during his speech, growing from careful to damn near openly hostile. And seeing expressions of hate on faces that had been nothing but disturbingly pleasant was more than unsettling.

 

“I think you should leave,” Mrs. Parker’s voice brooked no argument.

 

“I’m afraid I cannot do that,” Strange drawled.

 

“You should leave,” Mr. Parker stepped closer to his wife, glaring at Strange.

 

“Not going to happen.”

 

“Leave!” The couple shouted, their voices echoing one another in a harmony that sounded less than natural and containing far more voices than just their own.

 

“What’s going on?” Peter looked frantically between the adults, his large eyes anxious and voice high.

 

“There is nothing to worry about, young Parker,” Strange said with a smile that did not inspire much confidence. Weaving his hands in an intricate pattern, Strange produced flaming disks that resembled mandalas Stark had seen while at a Buddhist temple in China. While Peter looked mostly taken with the display, his aunt and uncle had a far more violent reaction. They let out joint screeches that sounded like something from a different plane. Stark took a step back, heart hammering in his chest. Their eyes were red. Not just red, but glowing. On their faces, arms, and torsos, long, winding bands of red spread like some sickly scars, and their expressions, once so jovial and welcoming, transformed into creatures Stark would never want to meet alone. Or here, as a matter of fact. Peter remained largely the same, though his eyes took on a glazed look at he glanced at his guardians without so much as a shudder.

 

“Strange...what in the hell is happening?”

 

“The soul-eaters have sensed my power. They feel what I am capable of, and are ready to fight rather than flee a reliable food source.”

 

“And you couldn’t have predicted that sooner?” Stark growled, pulling out the rod from his belt. He hated to strike them, as creepy as they were. They were Peter’s guardians, and he had to save them for the boy’s sake. “Perhaps tried to be less arrogant and suspicious?”

 

Stark couldn’t be certain, but he thought Strange may have rolled his eyes. The sorcerer released a disk and reached out for Stark, stabbing him in the forehead with two fingers. Stark cried out as something flashed in his eyes, and he blinked rapidly as he was light blinded.

 

“You didn’t say it would hurt!” He’d agreed to let Strange ‘open his third eye’ so he could see the creatures, but this was more than he’d asked for. Odd shapes filled his vision, and at first he believed them to be from the light Strange had hit him with. But as the light cleared fully, he saw otherwise. The shapes were _creatures_. Dozens of them, ranging from vaguely giant slug to gigantic six-legged bear-like. Several different ones had attached themselves to the Parkers, covering their bodies to the point that Stark only knew it was them from having seen them standing there a moment before. One shape, however, stood out among the rest. It resembled a leech, some thirty feet in length, with black, slimy skin and no facial features to speak of.

 

And it had its teeth in Peter’s back.

 

“Peter!” Stark reached out towards the boy, but a large hand on his chest stopped him.

 

“Not yet, Stark!” Strange barked. “You cannot possibly take it on alone with that tiny thing. It will require a great deal of power to detach it from the child, and only then will I be able to banish it safely.”

 

“Then get on it, wizard,” Stark grunted through his teeth, eyes fixated on the boy. “I am not by nature good at following, so if you wish for me to stick to your plan, you’d best hurry.”

 

“I would never have guessed it,” Strange drawled. Turning back to to the creatures, Strange drew a flaming sword from the air and pointed it at their opponents. “I am the Sorcerer Supreme of this dimension. I command you to leave this plane, or I will not hesitate to eliminate you.”

 

“And I’m with him, but less theatrical.”

 

Stark’s lips twitched at the stiffening of the wizard’s posture at his words. His amusement was short lived as the creatures cried out their anger. Clearly, few if any found Strange’s advice worth heeding, as those unattached to the Parkers soared towards them with intent. Pressing the trigger on the rod, Stark held it aloft and batted at the first of the soul-eaters to come near him. Electricity filled the air, leaving static behind around him as the creature went down, twitching and crying at his feet. Another, this one resembling some drawings he’d seen of supposed deep-sea creatures, nearly got its teeth into him before he brought the rod down on its back. It seemed to stun the creature, but little else, as it came back for him. This time, it produced tendrils just as it reached him, and as Stark went to strike, they wrapped around his hand. Stark cried out, and tried to pull his fist free. Something sharp had pierced him in several places when they’d attached; to his dawning horror, Stark could make out where barbs had dug into his skin, stinging him.

 

“Well, if you’re going to be like that…”

 

Twisting his fist about until the tip of the rod rested square on the creatures head, he plunged his hand down. On meeting the floor, the tip pierced the thin flesh of its head, and it squealed and pierced him deeper with its barbs. Thrashing and screaming, the creature produced more and more tendrils, reproducing like some miniature hydra, all reaching for Stark. They wrapped about his boots and his pants, winding and tightening their grip on him despite his valiant struggle, and swiftly stung him again. Pain exploded in both his legs, and Stark fell hard to the ground as they gave out under him. He and the creature had, or so it appeared, reached a stalemate.

 

Christ, this was going to hurt.

 

Despite the sting, Stark grasped the trigger, and released the electric current.

 

30,000 volts entered his arm and legs through the creature’s barbs. Stark opened his mouth as if to scream, but no sound came. His hand shook on the trigger, trying to release it, but unable to do so. Smoke filled the room as the soul-eater’s body took more than it could handle, and by the time the rod gave out, it had long since perished. Stark fell forward. It was with great difficulty he caught himself with his arms. Laying on his side with a pained grunt, shaking like an addict long without a fix, Stark looked out on the battle around him.

 

Strange had taken out many of the creatures in the time it had taken him to disable two. Dozens of grotesque corpses littered the floor, slowly adding to the horrid stench of the place. The wizard himself stood firmly in the middle of his kills, swinging his sword about with precision and a viciousness that, frankly, left Stark shaken in ways he wouldn’t have expected.

 

As the last of those unattached soul-eaters fell at Strange’s feet, split in two down the middle, Strange turned to face those attached still to the elder Parkers.

 

“It is time for you to make up your mind. Leave, or I will banish you.”

 

For a moment, the room was still. Even Peter remained motionless. Then, as swift as the wind, the creatures released the trio of Parkers and disappeared from the room with a pop, the grief leech the last remaining creature. For a brief moment, Mr. and Mrs. Parker stood still, their faces finally relaxed into a blank, dead stare. With a sigh, they dropped to the floor like puppets with their strings cut, their blank eyes staring out across the floor at nothing. They did not move again.

 

_Oh, God, no…_

 

“No!” Finally Peter showed some response, but it was far from what Stark had hoped for. Fat tears poured down his face, and he struggled in the leech’s grip as he reached out towards his fallen guardians. “No, not again! Please!”

 

“Let him go!” Never could Stark recall feeling such rage as he watched the boy struggle in the grip of that creature. Stumbling to his feet, Stark walked closer to the creature.

 

“Stark, what do you think you are doing?”

 

Stark ignored his harsh whisper. Standing only a few feet from the leech, he stared at its slimy form. He gripped the front of his shirt in a fist. “You said you need fire-like power to get this thing to detach from Peter?”

 

“Yes...but it cannot be flames, and needs to be precise and direct if you wish to avoid the boy. That is difficult in my arsenal.”

 

“Not in mine.”

 

Black linen tore away easily as Stark ripped it from his chest. There, in the middle of his sternum, sat his second best invention. Blue light filled the room, and electricity cracked where it had attached itself to the arc reactor. He hadn’t thought making it suck up any electricity it encountered to increase power would be so useful so soon, but it was just further proof of his own brilliance.

 

“Eat this.”

 

Blue energy pooled together on the front of the reactor, and with a loud whine, shot and struck the leech in its back.

 

The blast from his arc reactor left him gasping for breath, his heart suddenly weak. He had used more power than safe, and, for the moment, his heart was pumping almost entirely without protection. Stumbling, Stark reached out desperately for Peter as the leech let him go, the creature writhing from the sudden onslaught of intense power. Much like his aunt and uncle before, Peter fell like a puppet without his strings. _Oh, God, no!_ Feeling desperately for a pulse, Stark only breathed once he found a heartbeat. Just passed out.

 

Gathering the unconscious boy into his arms, Stark forced himself to stand on shaking legs. Beside him, Strange pulled out a peculiar two holed ring and slipped it on. Weaving his hand in a circle before him, a fiery portal opened around the leech. With one final screech, it fell in and disappeared, the portal closing with a hiss behind it.

 

“Come on, Stark!” Strange’s deep voice broke through the din of cracking house. The place had begun to shake in a way that gave Stark unpleasant memories of war zones past. “We must evacuate quickly now!”

 

“Thank you for such insight, wizard,” Tony gritted out, following the lanky form through the crumbling building. “I might not have thought of that had you not suggested it.”

 

Strange did not deign to respond to his wit, perhaps recognizing the situation as not the best for banter. A particularly loud crack made Stark look up, and his heart dropped. A cracking beam sat unbalanced above them. Even as he registered the danger, it began to fall.

 

In some distant part of his brain, Stark registered the faint hiss of flames, and thought desperately at how impossibly worse this situation had gotten. The next moment, something flashed, and Stark found himself standing outside once more, the otherwise peaceful night broken by the cacophony of cracking wood and brick behind him. Turning, Stark watched as the decrepit house finally gave in to what he had predicted a few hours earlier, and crumbled into its foundations. Stark found he could hardly think, let alone say, a word. He held the boy in his arms a little tighter.

 

“Well,” that deep, sardonic voice broke the air, “that could not have gone much worse. But I suppose we accomplished what we’d intended.”

 

Stark looked at the other man, the lines in his face harsh against the faint moonlight. “You call that a victory?”

 

“We saved the boy.”

 

“And lost his _guardians_.”

 

Strange shook his head slowly, his expression grave. “They were lost long ago, Stark. There was nothing you nor I could have done to save them from that plight. Nothing natural, at least. You see, they were already dead.”

 

“ _Dead_? But how? We spoke with them, they ate...well, they ate something! Possessed I’d believe, but dead?”

 

“I told you the leech that held Peter fed on grief, did I not? Where do you think that grief came from?”

 

At Stark’s horror-stricken expression, Strange pressed forward. “The dated quality of their home and knowledge is because they died years ago- decades, I’d wager- and have simply been kept in suspended animation as part of the leech’s plan for an infinite food source.”

 

“They knew who I was, though,” Stark said, looking at the boy in his arms with some desperation. “Peter-the Parkers, they all called me by name, talked about my projects-” He cut himself off, his gut dropped as the flicker of hope snuffed out. “...they talked about my _father’s_ projects...”

 

“I would wager they thought you were the previous Futurist, yes. You do resemble your father.”

 

Had Stark not been caught up in his unexpected feelings of grief as he looked at Peter, he would have protested that assessment. Though he was only half-listening to Strange, the magic user continued his explanation.

 

“Peter said ‘Not again’ as when his aunt and uncle fell, did he not? This was not the first time he saw them die, and I suspect it happened far more times than we’d ever care to imagine. By keeping Peter alive and suspended between planes so he could not age, and his aunt and uncle reanimated, the leech and the soul-eater tribe could force Peter to experience the loss of his family over and over again, thereby cultivating perpetual grief they could harvest whenever they wished.”

 

“Dear God.” Stark stomach felt sure to rebel against him at the thought. He was just a _child_.

 

“God, if he exists, was far from this place.” Strange stared at the boy for a time. He went to place a shaking hand on Peter’s brow, but Stark pulled the boy from his reach.

 

“I won’t do the boy, harm, Stark. I only wish to help.”

 

Fierce, violent instincts to protect the boy at all cost made it difficult to swallow the thought of allowing someone to touch Peter, but he gave a reluctant nod after fighting down the temptation to kick Strange’s shin and run off.

 

Laying a shaking hand on Peter’s brow, Strange closed his eyes and muttered something. It was unintelligible, but sounded like a foreign language. A soft, orange glow emanated from the hand. It disappeared as Stephen stepped away, some of the severity melting from his face.

 

“As I had hoped, much of Peter’s memory was already shattered as a means to keep his aunt and uncle’s deaths fresh and prevent him from remembering their previous demises. I managed to bury the memories a little deeper, making them distant and vague. It seemed the least I could do for the boy. I doubt anyone could live a normal life having lived through that experience with their memories of it fully intact.”

 

A flicker of hope lit in Stark’s chest, and he glanced between Strange and Peter. “‘A normal life’? Do you mean to say that Peter is not as his aunt and uncle were? He’s fully alive?”

 

“Completely,” Strange said with the first hint of a true smile Stark had seen from the man. “He should make a good recovery from this, with the proper care.”

 

“What kind of care does he need?” Any sort of medical treatment should be within his financial ability-

 

“Love,” Strange said simply, that hint of a smile growing. “Love, and care, and a home. Do you think you can give that to him, Stark?”

 

Him? Care for the boy? What could a confirmed bachelor with few paternal instincts possibly offer to a child who had suffered so much?

 

 _Compassion_ , the crystalline eyes seemed to say to him.

 

Before he could fully register it, Stark nodded. “Yes. I can give that to him.”

 

The sorcerer finally smiled in full, his teeth making his expression shark-like despite their clear pleasure. “I trust you on that, Stark. You’ll need to care for that boy well. He’s suffered more than many have in a hard life, and those scars won’t hide as easily in his heart as they do his mind. But he has a strength beyond what you or I have ever witnessed. There is something about him that gave him the ability to withstand the leech for so long.”

 

Stark eyed Strange up and down in a considering way. “Is this truly what you do for a living, Strange? Appearing in people’s lives suddenly, dispelling otherworldly creatures, bestowing vague warnings and advice on us lesser beings?”

 

“Someone must. And I am quite adept at it. The vague advice and warnings in particular.”

 

Snorting, Stark turned to look at the crumbling house for the first time since it had fallen, and released a soft cry. It was gone. Nothing, not a stone, not a beam, not even a hint of the foundation could be seen. Just a bland open field ready for development.

 

“Strange, what in the hell happened to-”

 

Turning to speak to the sorcerer, Stark stopped mid-sentence as he found the space the man had occupied empty. Looking about quickly, he found the street entirely deserted, much as the foundation had been. If it weren’t for the boy in his arms, Stark would think the entire affair some nightmarish dream.

 

“Where the hell have you gone, wizard?” He muttered. Pinching disappointment in his chest made him sniff in disgruntlement. Damned magic users were as unreliable as they seemed, apparently.

 

In his arms, the boy shifted. Looking down at Peter, that soft flame of affection Stark once believed to have died long ago took shape. He clutched the boy tighter, and looked out at the empty street once more.

 

Stark did not hear it, but with a hiss and a pop, a business card appeared mid-air and fell into the opening of his bag. Jarvis would find it, and present it to his boss when he and his new ward were safely settled at Stark Manor.

 

Doctor Stephen Strange

Sorcerer Supreme

Burn for my immediate attendance

**Author's Note:**

> I hated killing May and Ben. HATED it. But it felt wrong to have them live, knowing what had happened to them. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this!


End file.
